


can't tell me there's no point in trying

by GreyishBlue



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clothing Gremlin Bucky Barnes, Depression, Extra long sweater arm flappy things are very comfortable and important, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Sharing Clothes, Social Anxiety, Touch-Starved, comfy clothes as a coping mechanism, everyone lives in the tower, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/pseuds/GreyishBlue
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes, aka Winter Soldier, aka once and now partially again Bucky, feels a bit like he's haunting the Avengers complex. When he's not in hiding, [tactical retreat] he mutters to himself, he's still kind of lost. The common areas feel like they're for other people, spaces and activities meant for someone who deserves them. So when he ventures out, still wrapped in layers of tactical gear more often than not, he ends up brooding against walls and in corners.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Silence by Khalid
> 
> Written for Winterhawk Bingo Square: Pining

James Buchanan Barnes, aka Winter Soldier, aka once and now partially again Bucky, feels a bit like he's haunting the Avengers complex. When he's not in hiding, [_tactical retreat_] he mutters to himself, he's still kind of lost. The common areas feel like they're for other people, spaces and activities meant for someone who deserves them. So when he ventures out, still wrapped in layers of tactical gear more often than not, he ends up brooding against walls and in corners. [_Keeping open sight lines_] goes the mutter. It hasn't helped that Steve [_Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain America, aka Stevie, aka that punk_] tends to treat him like a breakable thing. Bucky knows he doesn't mean to, but the way Steve's eyes always slide away from the Hydra tech embedded in his shoulder makes him feel like he's tainted in some unfixable way. And some little part of him wants to be fixed, wants to fit into the dysfunctional group of people that live in this building with him. 

After a few too many nights spent avoiding whatever pain Steve radiates out of those All-American features, he's itching for a way to cover the arm, at least. There's a closet full of things he could go through, but it's all impersonal somehow, like it was bought in bulk through a catalogue. He's spent enough time stalking [ _ tactical observation! _ ] the team to know there are occasional clothing items left laying around, so he slinks through the common living room in the dark of night, and checks.

Bucky feels silly [ _ impractical, lacking mission parameters _ ] doing it, but the idea is a hell of a lot more appealing than talking to the freakishly intelligent AI made by the younger Stark [ _ Tony Stark aka Iron Man; son of Howard and Maria Stark - Deceased - Mission Complete _ ]. Or god forbid asking Steve for something to wear. Besides, it’s kind of fun being sneaky for a purpose that doesn’t involve murders. Poking through the couches and plush chairs yields an assortment of hair ties, two pairs of pants in vastly different sizes, more socks than seems prudent or possible, and one really old looking hooded sweater. He runs his flesh fingers over the purple fabric, is immediately pleased at the soft plushness, and snatches the sweater up against his chest like someone might take it from him. He grabs a few of the hair ties too before he makes a break back for his room. 

Bucky shudders at the little jolt of pleasure from completing an objective that thrills through him [ _ equipment upgrade acquired? _ ] once he’s sitting on his bed with the pilfered items. It might not have been much, worlds away from any actual mission he’s carried out, but it makes him feel like a tangible presence in the tower. He resolutely ignores the small shake in his hands while he’s removing his tac vest and the various pouches and straps involved with it. The second he’s slipped free, he hurries to get the sweater over his head, yanks it down so he feels covered again.

And.. and he’s absolutely swimming in it. The sleeves are slightly tight, but far too long on his arms. The fabric pools at his waist and he realizes with horror that it would fall to mid-thigh if he were standing. With the hood up and his hair falling across his face, he doubts anyone would actually be able to see him. [ _ Acceptable tactical camouflage _ ] pops into his head unbidden and he startles himself with a giggle. There’s a faint smell of beeswax and coffee permeating the fabric, Bucky has enough analytical prowess left over to realize the hoodie he’s wearing belongs to Clint [ _ Clint Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye, aka Ronin, aka weirdly pretty tall blonde that’s always perching on high surfaces _ ]. 

Bucky is almost concerned about how many things he’s felt in the past hour, so he pretends his cheeks aren’t heating up. In theory the sweater was just to keep Steve’s eyes off the shifting metal plates of his arm, but now that he has it, he doesn’t quite want to take it off. Before his brain can try to yell analysis at him about it, he removes his boots and pants and burrows under the many blankets he’s piled onto his bed. There’s only one quiet mutter of [ _ sleep situation optimized _ ] that floats through his mind as he falls asleep.

  
\---

The sweater mission turns out to be intensely successful in a way Bucky couldn’t have predicted. When he wears it next, Steve immediately notices. He zeroes in with that tactical focus he usually reserves for battle planning, “Is that Clint’s sweater?”   
  
“Yep.” Bucky shrugs and pretends not to see the way Steve glares at him for more information. A large part of the memories he’d recovered was a perfected skillset in ignoring the bullheadedness and interrogation techniques of little Steve Rogers, and Bucky had no problem putting it to use. The serum and added height really did nothing to make the guy more intimidating, he’d gotten that down well enough when he was barely over 5 feet tall.

They get through an entire meal without any patriotic guilt or awkward silences _ .  _ Steve is too distracted trying to come up with a casual way to ask more about it to look sad about anything. Any staring he’d done was at purple fabric instead of the metal beneath it, so Bucky figures it’s a win. [_Mission parameter complete!_]   
\----

Bucky realizes his lapse in judgement right around the time he walks into a room where Clint is sitting behind Natasha [ _ Natalia Romanova, aka Black Widow, aka too many aliases to list shut up brain, focus! _ ], carding those long calloused fingers through her hair and winding it into a decent semblance of a french braid. Neither of them look up at him, but he can tell they’re aware of his presence in the slight tightening of their various muscle groups. He came in here for something, maybe coffee? It’s hard to remember over the sudden thundering of his heart [ _ no visible threats, what the hell, heart? _ ]. 

He clutches his fingers into the dangling purple fabric that hangs at the end of his hands and turns back the way he came in a hasty retreat. He doesn’t really think Clint would be mad about the sweater theft, but he also can’t bring himself to face the possibility. He only hears the barest hint of a conversation between Natasha and Clint as he goes, and he hurries so he doesn’t have to pick up what they might be saying about him. [ _ Threat level evaluation? Gossip? Did they see me? _ ] His brain keeps asking him questions that he has no decent answer for, and eventually it drives him back to his room where he definitely doesn’t hide in his bed. It’s just… a very early nap. In the middle of the afternoon. 

The next time he tries to venture out, he folds the sweater up and leaves it on his bed. He doesn’t even make it to Steve’s room before he’s turning around, half furious with himself and half just anxious to feel soft fabric wrapping him up again. [ _ Inadequate mission preparation, please re-gear _ ] He tries his old tac vest, but only manages to do up two straps before he’s yanking it off, something about the hard leather against him making his skin crawl. 

It all leads to a weird holding pattern, where Bucky only leaves his rooms late at night enough that he thinks no one will be around. It’s the only time it might be empty enough [ _ lacking one archer enough _ ] that he can get away with wearing the sweater. He just can’t handle the idea of it being taken away now that he’s had a taste of the comfort and safety he feels wearing it.

As he’s wandering through the communal area one night, a glint catches his eye from the back of one of the couches. Upon closer inspection, he finds a small white card, folded over with his name on one side. It sits on top of a small box wrapped in newspaper. He glances around guiltily before flipping the card open, drops it like it burned him a moment later. 

**Keep it if you want, this one might fit better though. -C.B.** ****   
**   
** Before he can think better of it, he’s grabbing the box and slinking back into his room to open it in private. Nestled in the box is a sweater very similar to the one he stole a few weeks ago, just in a different size and with a truly obnoxious purple bullseye plastered across the front. He can’t bring himself to care that it’s going to look silly as hell, and he ignores how much his cheeks hurt from smiling. When he tries it on, it fits perfectly, and he’s a little bit confused at the disappointment he feels. [ _ Equipment unsatisfactory? _ ] queries the mutter in his brain, and a frown tugs at the edges of his mouth while he tries to figure out the answer. 

  
The closer he gets to admitting what he’s feeling to himself, the harder it gets to breathe, until he has to curl up by the side of his bed to try to calm his rushing heart. He tucks his knees into his chest and spends far too long [ _ re-calibrating? _ ] getting himself under control. Bucky tries to lie to himself, but the extremely persistent mutter in his brain doesn’t allow it. He pulls up the properly fitted hood, sighs deeply and realizes he’s completely screwed. This sweater is great, but it’s not Clint’s. Somehow he’s gotten himself stuck pining after Clint Barton. [ _ Definitely not optimal. _ ]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though the gifted sweater doesn’t feel as nice as the one he liberated from the couches, the note attached to it has solved a problem for Bucky. He knows now that he’s allowed to keep both, so he’s quite suddenly free to roam about and be comfortable while doing so. He’s still not exactly managing to be social, but he’s exchanged a few words here and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Winterhawk Bingo Square: Braids

Even though the gifted sweater doesn’t feel as nice as the one he liberated from the couches, the note attached to it has solved a problem for Bucky. He knows now that he’s allowed to keep both, so he’s quite suddenly free to roam about and be comfortable while doing so. He’s still not exactly managing to be social, but he’s exchanged a few words here and there. So far Bruce [ _ Dr. Bruce Banner, aka The Hulk _ ] has been the easiest to talk to, and they share almost five full sentences between them before Bucky feels itchy under all of his skin and has to make himself scarce. He does take along the tea that Bruce brewed for him, and something almost like pride comes along with the soothing warmth. [ _ Upgrade from tower-mate to acquaintance acquired? _ ] Bucky isn’t sure, but he doesn’t dismiss the mutter’s question entirely. It’s nice to at least be wondering things that don’t revolve around panic and survival. It’s also nice that Steve has stopped looking so hang-dog worried every time they hang out. But Bucky does get a weird chill down his spine at the knowing looks Steve keeps flashing him.

He keeps finding things laid around in suspiciously convenient places. A towel folded into a lumpy dog-like shape outside his door, which turns out to be the softest towel he’s ever felt. A few pairs of socks lined up to form his initials on the kitchen counter [ _ thankfully clean, god why did I sniff them? _ ]. After a particularly frustrating day in the gym where his hair wouldn’t stop escaping the last frayed hair tie he’s managed to keep hold of, there’s a daisy chain of them hanging from his doorknob. Every item is in some shade of purple, and he’s oddly thrilled that he’s starting to look like a walking Hawkeye advertisement. [ _ Acceptable team designation. _ ]

His not-so-mysterious gift leaver hasn’t actually approached him though. The few times they’ve been in a room together, Bucky has catalogued a few glances from the archer, he just can’t figure out what that means. Clint’s eyes do seem to linger on the things Bucky wears, and god does Bucky want to ask why, but he’s still afraid [ _ not enough intel, corrective measures necessary. _ ] of what the answer might not be.

Eventually the curiosity outweighs the fear and he resolves to talk to… well, not Clint, but the next best thing. The night he decides to approach Natasha, he finds her sitting cross legged on the kitchen countertop, and there’s no question that she’s waiting for him. [ _ How the hell - right, living with a bunch of clandestine operatives. Focus! _ ] She’s dressed in rumpled sleep clothes, little happy yellow sunshines dotted across her pants making her look the furthest thing from her usual combination of deadly and aloof. He apparently stares too long at the oddity of her appearance because she sighs deeply like he’s personally offended all of her ancestors. 

“I hoped you boys would just talk to each other, but even I’m tired of watching this, so here.” She says as she slides easily off the counter and tosses something to him that he catches on instinct.    
  
“What?” Bucky replies, tries desperately not to cringe at his own lack of eloquence. He stares confusedly at the hair brush in his hand, then back up at Natasha, but neither of them answer. 

All Natasha offers him is a roll of her eyes and a jaunty wave in not exactly his direction as she exits the room. More confused than ever [ _ Not sure what was expected from the Black fucking Widow. _ ], he glances over at where she had aimed her wave. There’s nothing but an empty room, the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator stubbornly offer no answers. He feels ridiculous glaring at the coffee maker, but he’s left without another option, since the conversation really didn’t go the way he had planned. [ _ Failure to add secondary planning. _ ] Before he can sigh at the mutter, he hears a small metallic clank and his eyes shoot up to the ventilation shaft running the span of the room. 

He tilts his head to get a better read on the sound, and he hears a softly whispered, emphatic  **‘fuck** ’ filter down from the vent. He opens his mouth to ask... something, he’s not entirely sure what, when a panel flips open on the underside of the vent and a shock of blonde hair appears from it, followed by cornflower blue eyes and a sheepish grin. A moment later, Clint is swinging himself out, biceps doing things that Bucky thinks should probably be illegal in some way. [ _ Assault on the eyes with deadly weapons? _ ] The query from his brain drives a blush immediately across his face. Then Clint is sauntering over to him and he finds his feet are firmly rooted to the floor, his hands clench around the brush and the flappy edges of his sweater sleeves. 

“So um… heya Barnes.” Clint is definitely speaking to him, and he should reply. Has to say something. Words. Oh god, words?   
  
“Bucky.” He gets out, and sure it’s just one word but he figures it’s a start, and the mutter in his brain is uncharacteristically quiet so it’s no help. 

“Yeah! Bucky.” Clint upgrades from a grin to a full on smile at that before he continues, “Sorry about Nat, she likes to be mysterious. I should… um, we should.. “ He’s trailing off, one hand rubbing self-consciously at the back of his head, making an even bigger mess of his unruly hair. 

“What’s the brush for?” Bucky blurts out as he holds it forward, almost offering it to Clint.   
  
At that Clint sighs softly, walks a few steps forward to carefully take the brush out of Bucky’s hand. “Um, okay so just say no if you don’t want to, keep in mind Nat is going to know somehow. But. Could I braid your hair?” He says it all fast enough that Bucky has to replay it in his head to figure it out. 

He opens his mouth to answer, realizes there’s no words there, and closes it with a little click of his teeth. There’s a subtle look of disappointment working across Clint’s face, so he quickly slides one of the soft purple hair ties he’s had on his metal wrist off, and shoves it into Clint’s hand. Before he can think his way out of it, he marches to the couch and sits in it the way he had seen Natasha sitting when Clint had been working on her hair. 

Clint is still in the kitchen, looking [ _ incredibly cute when he’s flustered _ ] confused, until Bucky tilts his head in invitation. Then he’s hurrying over, stumbling on the edge of a carpet and banging his shin on a coffee table in his haste. Once he’s settled himself carefully behind Bucky, he hesitates. “Is it okay to touch you?” He almost whispers it like he’s actually unsure of the answer, and it makes Bucky’s heart squeeze a little. Clint asking means a lot though, and it relaxes the tension out of Bucky’s shoulders.   
  
“Yeah, it’s alright, Ba.. uh, Clint?” Bucky replies, hears the pleased little sound Clint makes at hearing his name and immediately adores it.   
  
Then Clint is softly and so so carefully carding his fingers through Bucky’s long, messy hair. He untangles the knots with something almost like reverence, only starts working the brush through once there’s nothing that it might pull on. Bucky feels himself nearly melting into the feeling of Clint’s fingers along his scalp, in his hair, it’s somehow the easiest thing in the world to lean back to get closer to the other man. [ _ proximity alert! .. hey, alert? _ ] His brain tries valiantly but he ignores it, lets himself have this bizarre and incredibly pleasing thing that’s happening to him. 

It’s definitely far too soon when Clint ties off the end of Bucky’s hair. Bucky starts to frantically come up with some excuse to stay when Clint places a careful hand on his shoulder [ _ the metal shoulder he’s just... he’s just touching it?? _ ] and he turns to look back at the archer. There’s a whole new smile dawning on Clint’s lightly freckled face, one that Bucky would pay money to see over and over again.    
  
“Is this okay? I’d like to um. We should hang out.” Clint sort of asks, that hopeful smile distracting Bucky enough that it takes him a few moments to answer.   
  
“Please? Yes. I’d like that. I’m not so good at talking to people.” The last sentence Bucky says with his eyes downcast like he’s afraid Clint will judge him. He gasps when Clint uses one calloused finger to tip his chin back up so they’re looking at eachother again.

“That’s okay. I’m bad at a lot of people things too.” Clint gestures vaguely at the clothes Bucky is wearing, and that’s when Bucky realizes the  **why** part of the gifts. [ _ Critical mission success! _ ] yells his brain, and he’s blushing too hard to argue with it, because that’s definitely what this feels like. 

Bucky nods, can’t help the grin he flashes Clint before he replies, “Okay.” 

Clint takes that for what it is, doesn’t press for more explanation, just turns to grab the remote so he can pick out a movie for them to watch. It’s easy, and it’s comfortable [ _ not as comfortable as Best Sweater. _ ] When Bucky feels himself getting a little twitchy after a couple hours, he looks over at Clint apologetically only to see an understanding look there. Bucky reaches across the couple inches separating them and squeezes Clint’s hand once in thanks before he goes back to his own rooms. 

He’s not sure what the coming days will bring, but for the first time in a long time he falls asleep easily and dreams of some better things that might come, all of them wrapped in purple.


End file.
